


Beset by Harpists

by daphnerunning



Series: What is Wrought Between Us [10]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 50 Years Post Angband, Come Eating, Cousin Incest, Hair Braiding, Healing Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rimming, Secret Marriage, mild exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27934417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: Fifty years of the Sun after his rescue from Thangorodrim, many wounds have healed. But a looming battle on the plains of Dorthonion tempts the darkness within Maedhros, even now.Fortunately, Fingon is determined to be a source of light.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: What is Wrought Between Us [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019358
Comments: 4
Kudos: 73





	Beset by Harpists

**Author's Note:**

> We have fully switched to Sindarin names now, friends (THANKS THINGOL), and it will pretty much stay that way.

_60 F.A., Dorthonion_

So many of them wanted to see him.

It reminded Maedhros of the first long months after his rescue from captivity, when he had seen them drawing as close as they dared, gathering to watch him drag himself through the camp with the assistance of his crutch.

Curufin had taken one look at the forked stick he’d been using and snapped it over his knee in disgust, coming back the next day with a beautifully-wrought apparatus that helped him move twice as fast as before, and with far less pain. That, for Curufin, was love. From Celegorm, it was the game, the finest in all the camp, left trussed and gutted, as if he could make up for the long years of starvation with fat pheasants and boar. From the Ambarussa came sachets of rare healing herbs, foraged from the wilds of Beleriand with unerring skill. From Caranthir, he found himself an unlikely tutor, who would sit uncomplaining for hours taking dictation and showing him how to shape the letters with his left hand, or stand against him with a sword as he healed, ignoring the careless, clumsy injuries he caused. From Maglor, he had a magnificent ballad about his rescue, _"The Fair Prince and the Fell Peak,"_ painting Fingon as brave and true, and the camps had begun to whisper that the son of Fingolfin was a true prince indeed, and should be lauded.

Maedhros understood. This was love, from them, but it was penance, too, for not seeking him. He accepted it, and did not absolve them, out of a fear that if he did, they would never listen to or follow him again. They were too powerful and deadly to thrash into submission now, with a wrestling match and a dunk in the pond. At least if they were guilty, they would heed him, and raise no rebellion against the forces of Fingolfin.

Still, the people stared.

They had stared at him, and whispered about the King that was Dead, and had Returned. Some of them had not been so reverent, and had gawped openly at his scars, whispered that he was mad, and had pulled their children into the tents as he passed. Some of the bolder youths had dared each other to speak to him, goading their friends to see who would get closest, who would ask the most prying questions.

"What happened to your face, Lord? Did you always look like that?"

"Is your eye magic?"

"Did the Enemy eat your hand, after you cut it loose?"

"Do they hurt? Can I touch them?"

"Did they take your foot, too? Is that why you walk like that?"

"Ammë? Is he a monster?"

“They’re doing it again,” he muttered, pacing in his tent. He wanted to go for a walk, but feeling those prying eyes made him feel as if he still had that limp, still had the bone sticking out of his collarbone, still had Mairon’s brand seared into the sides of his neck. The injuries had faded, mostly, though he still felt the rain in every bone he had on cold nights. The brands, he’d cut off himself, or with Fingon’s help, who took one look at his face and did not try to sway his decision. Perhaps they would have faded, in time. Maedhros had no patience for that, when it came to wearing Mairon’s mark. Better to give himself more scars, no matter if they were the size of his palm, than to carry those reminders one moment longer than he had to.

“Mm? They? Doing what?”

Fingon was sprawled on his bedroll, his fine tunic rucked up carelessly as he paged through a missive from his father’s camp, poring over strategic maps.

“The young ones. They’re staring again. It’s the orcs coming closer,” Maedhros decided. “They want to see what will happen, if they’re taken. They come to stare at what their future will be, if they fall, and are too unlucky to die.” He, too, was on edge from the armies of Morgoth coming into the plains of Dorthonian, as if at any moment, they would take him back into Angband.

Fingon rolled over, looking at him upside-down. “You think that the cause?”

“Of course. What else?”

Fingon snorted, and rolled to his feet, standing lithely and padding over to him, barefoot. "They come to see their commander," he said, hands coming up to grip Maedhros's upper arms, squeezing firmly. "They come to see who will be keeping us safe, when we meet the orcs in the field. They come, because you are fierce, and they would look upon you for hope."

"Better to look to your father. Or you."

"They do!" Fingon beamed at him, and leaned up onto the tips of his toes, planting a kiss to Maedhros's chin. "I am very inspirational, you see. And my father, a powerful foe to the enemy. But those in your camp, they look to you, because you are their leader. Do not begrudge them the sight of you. You bring them hope."

"I? Bring hope?"

"You, bring hope."

"For...living through capture? They should not hope to."

"No," Fingon said, with an air of exasperated patience. "For victory. You have turned very fierce, this past half century. But, you say they stare. So sit. I will give them something to stare at."

Maedhros sat.

Fingon moved behind him, taking his comb and his ribbons, and began to braid his hair. "It's longer now," he mused.

"It's certainly had long enough to grow."

"No, I mean--than before. It's longer than I remember, back in Valinor."

"Is it?" Maedhros blinked, looking down at the copper waves. "I suppose it is long. Yours is the same, I've made a study of it."

"Mm, yes. You made me find a new attendant maid."

"I told her, it's fifty plaits for each of the large three with the golden ribbon, two hundred each for the smaller ones that loop into them. I don't know why that's so difficult, I could do it when I was no more than a child."

"Not everyone had six fine brothers to practice on at that age."

"I didn't have six brothers _before my majority_ , Finno. Two, and only one of them cared to let me practice."

"You also had a rather demanding cousin, I hear."

"I had two very demanding cousins, but Ingoldo rarely--mm, _Finrod_ rarely needed my talents at braiding."

"Oh, was he demanding in other ways?"

"Of course, always trying to get me to put gems into his harp. My father thought him very silly."

"Ah. You are beset by harpists."

"I have often said so."

"I hear your brother is something of a harpist, as well."

"So it is said. He, too, loved to feel me braid his hair, but was bad at sitting for it."

"Oh? Was he impatient?"

"Not at all. But when he was suddenly struck by the next verse of a song, he would bolt up from his chair, and my hands would tug at him, and he would cry."

"He sounds _very_ troublesome. And what of this other harpist cousin?"

"The most troublesome of all," Maedhros assured him, as those gentle, talented fingers worked through his hair. "All the more so because I could not always hide my feelings, when I had my hands in his hair."

"Your feelings? You sound as if you enjoyed having your hands in the hair of this troublesome cousin."

"Well, I certainly enjoyed having two hands, though I thought little of the gift at the time."

Fingon laughed, knowing his moods so well by now that he could easily tell when to show mirth, and when Maedhros would not have been able to bear it. "Perhaps it was less your own hands you loved, and more the touching of this cousin."

"Hmm. I promise I had the ardor of both my hands, and often, when I thought of this cousin."

"And _I_ promise that when you would will it, you should have the ardor of this cousin, and touch his hair whenever you like, whether you can braid it or no."

"Finno. Come to me."

"Just a moment, I'm binding it off."

"I won't live if you aren't in my lap."

"I thought I was the impatient one," Fingon teased, and bound off the fine green ribbon, then moved to sit in Maedhros's lap, leaning in for a long kiss.

Maedhros's hand came up to his thigh, the touch hungry. "Finno," he breathed, a flush creeping up his neck, his eyes locked onto Fingon's face. He knew he stared too much now, and to anyone else, surely, it would have been one of many things about him that were unbearable to live with.

Fingon only smiled, as if there were nothing to be self-conscious over, so why should he mind being looked at? Indeed, he dropped his hands to his tunic, parting the laces, then shamelessly tossing it aside.

He was lovely, unblemished and smooth, looking hardly older than he had the day they had plighted their troth, the image of a cheerful prince, confident in his own beauty and righteousness. "Once, I was the High Prince, King that would be. Now it is you. I think you far more suited to the role."

Fingon considered this, and undulated slowly, grinding down against Maedhros's lap, letting the lean muscles in his abdomen flex and ripple as he did. "I think of us, rather, as a pair of fearsome Captains," he breathed. "Who in the morning will ride to glory, and victory."

"But tonight, no talk of orcs." Maedhros's voice was low, but there was an edge to it, and a shadow in his eyes. Sometimes he needed to speak of orcs, whether they were making love or sitting by a fire, but not tonight. "Let me save my wrath for the battlefield tomorrow. Tonight, speak to me of beauty."

Fingon's fingers came up to stroke his face, tracing every contour, from the line of his brows (scarred) to the tip of his nose (scarred) to the curve of his lips (scarred, the Healers had lied again). "Then I will speak of you," he said simply. "For there is nothing so beautiful to me as you, _arimelda_. Take off your glove, and touch me."

Maedhros took the middle finger of the glove in his teeth, and tugged it off, letting it fall to the floor. He wore the ring, had since his rescue, and would until Morgoth took his other hand, or he died. Out of deference to his uncle, he covered it with a glove-- _"Until you think my deeds proven worthy of him, Uncle,_ " he'd said, fifty years earlier--but it circled his index finger nevertheless. The silver rings, his and Fingon's, they had bound together with a length of fine wire, and kept them safely in a box.

He ran his hand lightly over Fingon's chest, feeling himself harden at every brush of skin against skin, as if the friction he dragged between them could catch fire at any moment. "I want you," he breathed.

"You have me."

Maedhros nodded, and urged him up. Fingon rose, and followed his motion, down to the bedroll, where Maedhros took him into his arms, and kissed him as if it was the first time again. Fingon's hands went to his hair, and Maedhros pulled back, mischief dancing in his eyes. "You'll only have to braid it again."

"Perhaps that is my goal," Fingon suggested. "More time, with my hands upon you."

"You need only ask."

"May I?"

Fingon's hand toyed with the end of his tunic, and Maedhros nodded, half-sitting up to let him take it off. If his body was not what it once was, it was at least strong and hale, and he had his hair, and Fingon had seen all his scars long ago in any case. He'd been free of Angband longer than he'd been inside, a fact he reminded himself of often, on the bad days.

But the bad days were growing less frequent. It still felt as though he lived with a monster of shadows in his bedchamber, that would strike and scourge him whenever they were alone, but Fingon was a bright light driving back the darkness, and never left him alone for long.

Maedhros had told him of this fancy, once. Fingon had named his monster Utûthost, the Stench of the Dark Pit, and assured him that this was the sort of creature he was quite adept at slaying. Maedhros knew it was not slain, not yet, but its visits grew farther apart, and that was enough.

At least, it had been until now. But in the morning, they would face Morgoth's horde. "I am afraid," he whispered, and Fingon touched his cheek.

"I will not let them take you again," he promised.

"Not that." Of course that, always that, but more. "I am afraid...I will not acquit myself the way I must. That I will be unable to...be what I must be."

"If that is what you must be, you will be thusly," Fingon said, and slid his arms around Maedhros's waist, tugging him close enough to feel how hard Fingon already was through the fine cloth of his breeches. "You will be free, with your blade, and your fine strong host of Noldor at your back. It will not be the same."

Maedhros nodded, willing it to be true. "You," he murmured, bending his head to brush his lips over the juncture of Fingon's shoulder and neck, "smell different."

"Do I?" Fingon's eyes danced.

Maedhros felt his lips stretch in a smile. Only the faintest scar remained on his lips, and he no longer felt the tug upon them with every expression of mirth. "Is this a secret I will love you for?"

Fingon laughed, and loosened his breeches, kicking them off to take himself in hand, slowly stroking his hard length as he gazed into Maedhros's eyes. Maedhros had never needed to tell him how their lovemaking had to alter; he had known, or guessed rightly, and adapted without hesitation or complaint. Now he waited, taking obvious pleasure in the touch of his own hand, waiting for Maedhros to collect himself, to remember that everything he did was his own free choice. Some days it came easily. Others, it took time, sometimes up to an hour, but Fingon never grew impatient.

"No secret," Fingon assured him. "Only that I have a new herbal cream given as a gift from that Doriathian band we rescued from the crags last week, and thought to see if it would truly soften my skin as they suggested. You may investigate the results."

"Oh, may I?" Maedhros teased, and let his hand rest on Fingon's hip, trailing over the soft skin, back to his buttocks, down to his thighs, up to his belly, and finally down to grip his cock.

Fingon bit his lip, eyelids fluttering as he let out a soft little moan. "Am I...nice to touch?" he breathed, hips rolling slowly up into Maedhros's hand.

"Exquisite." Maedhros closed with him at last, kissing him deeply, feeling himself properly roused despite the day's tension. Or perhaps it was because of the day's tension, urging him to make love now, because tomorrow would be grave deeds and death, and not all would return from the plains of Dorthonion where they would make their stand.

"Lord Maedhros?" came the voice from outside the tent.

Maedhros broke the kiss, grimacing, and tugged a blanket over Fingon. "A moment!"

"Isn't that Celebrimbor?" Fingon asked, obviously trying not to pout. "Send him away. You said you'd die if I wasn't in your lap. We need you for the war. Therefore--"

Maedhros kissed his brow, then stood, tugging his tunic back on. "I promise, the mood will not be lost. I want to feel the bliss of you inside me tonight."

A flush stained Fingon's face, and he turned, burying his face into the pillow. "Go now, or I'll be a very troublesome harpist indeed!"

Maedhros chuckled, and made his way to the tent flap, untying it to look upon his nephew. "I assume this is a matter of urgency?" he asked, flicking a look up to the setting sun. "Is your father well?"

Celebrimbor nodded, and his own gaze shifted to Maedhros's naked hand, and the ring upon it. His eyes widened, but he said nothing, only held out a package wrapped in soft cloth. "I made you something. I've been working on it for some time, but it was never quite right. Ah, I'm sure the weight still needs to be adjusted, and I welcome any and all comments upon the use in practice. Of course I couldn't use it on myself, and no one else could tell me whether this would be a help or a hindrance--you don't need to wear it if you don't want to, or if you have another design in mind..."

Maedhros raised an eyebrow, and took the package with his stump, cradling it to his chest and using his hand to unwrap it.

The silver hand was beautiful. Curufin had made him a false hand before, but the balance had been off, and Maedhros had thanked him, but left it in its box. Curufin had taken the review for what it was, and left him with the stump, though surely he would have made another if Maedhros had asked.

This one was far different. The fingers were slightly curled in a startlingly accurate replica of his own, the length and shape matched perfectly to his left hand. While they rested together, there was some mechanism that enabled him to wiggle them apart, and they bent under pressure, staying where he placed them. It was also warm to the touch, unlike any metal hook or prosthesis he'd been given to try before.

"I thought you might want the fingers to move," Celebrimbor said, looking nervous. He had been very young during the crossing, and even now, often jumped or started when Maedhros looked in his direction. It had been worse after his rescue, though the youth had hidden it better. He was not so afraid as the other youths in the camp, but his hesitation hurt more, as close kin.

"You always wear the glove, so I thought you might want to be able to wear a pair of them, so none would think it amiss? I wish I could make one that looked like flesh, but--well, Atar says the forges at Formenos may have had the material I need for such a thing, but here, I don't--"

"It's beautiful." Maedhros found a smile for the boy, who positively shone with relief. He still seemed young, though he had to be over a century by now. "I cannot promise I will wear it always, but this is by far the best one I've held."

Celebrimbor's eyes lit up. "Thank you, Lord Maedhros!"

"You _can_ call me Uncle, as you do my brothers."

The boy's cheeks flushed, and he shook his head. "You are my commander. It is fitting I should call you Lord. Besides, in battle, should it not be confusing if I should call _Uncle_ and five of you came riding?"

Maedhros nodded grimly, and clasped the boy's forearm. "Good lad. Go get some rest, if you can. The orcs march by night, and that is how we will crush them."

"Yes, Lord Maedhros!"

Maedhros turned back into the tent, wrestled briefly with the tie, and set the silver hand on the desk to deal with later. He turned back to Fingon, and his breath caught.

Fingon had lighted candles, and was kneeling in a large circle of them. He was naked, shimmering with oil from a pot he'd unearthed, slowly rubbing it down his chest and belly, stroking his lovely cock. He looked up, and his eyes were dark and hazy with lust. "You cannot say such things as you said to me," he breathed, his gaze holding Maedhros's, "and expect me to think of anything but pleasure."

Maedhros had no name for the sound that escaped his lips, unbidden. He shucked his breeches, feeling berserk, all of his hesitation forgotten in an instant of heady arousal. He knelt in front of Fingon, kissing him hard, his hand tangling through gold-threaded hair, pulling Fingon down onto him. "I must have you," he whispered, and thought indeed he might burst into flame if he did not.

Perhaps someday, if he lived another several centuries, he would find the courage to tell his husband that sometimes the kindnesses he took like this felt like cruelties, and he did not know why. Perhaps if they were victorious, and he saw Morgoth and Mairon hewn to the black earth beneath Angband, he would find the words to beg for what he felt he needed. Sometimes a truly black mood would come upon him, and he wanted nothing more than to be mastered again, treated brutally by a beloved hand, sapping the dark memories of their power over him.

But how could he ask that of Fingon, who was the song in his long darkness? How could he mar and spoil that love, the only one he would ever have?

He could not risk it.

So he let Fingon bear him down, gently, and pour warm oil between his thighs, and slick and stretch him with skill and care. Even in denying himself the purifying burst of pain he sought, there was some victory; he would _not_ let Fingon be tainted by the darkness, as he was. Even by accepting the kindness of his hand, he was winning, one in an endless series of small victories he was forced to claim every day.

A dim part of him remembered a time, that seemed to belong to a different person, when Fingon had told him he was enjoying this too thoroughly, and both of them had thought the act salacious.

"Please," Fingon was whispering against his ear, warm and strong and whole on top of him, a blessing Maedhros did not deserve. "Please, tell me I can, I'm so hard, you're so beautiful, I need you, please..."

Maedhros nodded, then shook his head. "Wait. I want--" The words were a surprise to himself, and for a moment, he hid his face in his hand, chest heaving.

Fingon went still in a second, not moving a muscle. "Do you need me to stop? To leave?"

"No!"

"All right."

Slowly, Maedhros pulled his hand down from his face. He would be master of himself.

He _would_.

"I want," he said, swallowing when he paused, for his mouth was dry, "you to look at me first."

Fingon's eyes blazed, and he nodded, drawing back, clearly awaiting further instructions.

Sometimes, the things his mind drove him to do did not entirely make sense. Sometimes, Maedhros couldn't explain them. Usually, if he did them anyway, it was better afterwards. In any case, Fingon would not let him go too far.

The madness of ardor was on him, making it easier. Maedhros pushed Fingon's chest back, just a bit, to where he wanted him. Then he shifted, leaning up and back on his right elbow, trailing the fingers of his left hand up his own thigh, holding Fingon's eyes. "Watch," he breathed, and sank two fingers into his hole, making himself shiver. He spread them apart, and saw Fingon's eyes track helplessly down, his breath quickening, his cock dripping clear fluid.

"You see?" he whispered, toying with himself, his cock aching as he thrust his fingers in and out, and even he didn't know the point of this strange exercise, or what he hoped to achieve. "See how I want you? How I rouse to you?"

"Yes." Fingon's word was a choked exhale, as if Maedhros held him by the throat.

"When you finish taking your pleasure in me," Maedhros said, his voice a low, hot whisper, "I'll have you look again, and see how well you enjoyed me."

A low moan came from Fingon's mouth. His hand twitched to his cock, then stilled, as he forced himself to wait, to behave, like he was a runner at the Games waiting for the starting cloth. The power was heady.

"Tomorrow, perhaps I should march to battle with your seed still painting my thighs," Maedhros said, and moaned at the idea, and then Fingon was on him.

"Tell me to stop or let me take you now," Fingon said, and his hand was strong on Maedhros's wrist, pulling it away and pinning it above his head. Fingon's cock dragged through the oil, coming to press against his prepared hole.

Maedhros shook his head. "Don't stop. Not until you're finished."

Fingon slid forward, his cock breaching Maedhros's body, making him hiccup and whine. For just a heartbeat, one of Utûthost's dark tentacles lashed his mind--it was not _fair_ that he had anything to compare this to, this should never have been sullied, his oaths to Fingon had come first, if only he could burn out the part of his soul that detachedly pointed out that this was not the largest cock he'd ever taken, maybe it was his captivity that had turned him into a creature that lusted after this so much--

And then Fingon's white fire burned the monster back.

Maedhros surged up, bending down to capture Fingon's mouth in a swift kiss that flared bright white in the cobweb-filled corners of his mind. Utûthost's tentacles retreated, scorched by that light, scuttling for cover until another day when he was more vulnerable, in less valuable company.

Then there was only the pleasure.

"Maedhros."

Maedhros's eyes lidded, and he tipped his head back, loving the sound of his name on Fingon's lips. "Mm, yes, anything, you can have anything, just keep moving like that--"

"Remember."

Fingon kissed his chest, his shoulders. He didn't linger on the scars, but didn't ignore them either, as he rutted in with a desperate eagerness. "Remember. You've _always_ loved this."

He blinked, and his left eye was slow to focus, glassy as it was with pleasure. Fingon's cock was rocking into him at the most sinful angle, dragging little hitching groans of pleasure from his lips. "I...I love it," he managed, not sure what Fingon was saying, only wanting more.

"Since our first time." Fingon's eyes were warm and intent. The light had driven Utûthost back, but it was _bright_ , so bright that Maedhros flinched from that gaze when he didn't remember not to. "You've always loved it, when I move inside of you."

He _had_ , hadn't he?

Fingon's trembling fingers brushed his face, reverent. "I see you forget that, sometimes," he whispered. "Just don't--forget--you were mine _first_ \--and you'll _always_ be mine--"

Maedhros nodded, copper braids flying as he did, his spine arching, thighs splayed wide, the candlelight glinting off of his ring, of Fingon's ribbons. "Always."

Fingon kissed him, though he had to stretch and grab Maedhros's head down to do it. "And nothing between us," he whispered roughly, "will _ever_ be reason for shame."

It wasn't expiation.

But it was close.

Maedhros sobbed as he came, clinging to Fingon with both arms, gripping at his hair, his stump clinging for all the strength of his ruined arm. He felt Fingon spill inside of him, and with a bright, sudden spark, knew he was right. He _had_ always loved this, before there was any shadow between them.

For the first time since their reunion, he found himself in the arms of another, and felt no fear at all.

After long minutes (Fingon had always been slow to recover from lovemaking, which Maedhros found adorable), he heard his husband ask shyly, "Do you want me to...do that? What you said? Or did it just feel good to say, when you were hard?"

"I--" The memory of what he'd said crept back to him, and he felt his face heat up. "You don't need to."

"Oh," Fingon remarked, his eyebrows raising, and he pushed himself up to lean above Maedhros. "That means yes."

It did.

Valar help him, it did.

Fingon pulled off of him, and leaned back, eyes glittering in the candle's flame. "Show me."

The flare of arousal was nearly too much, already overstimulated and shivering as he was. Obediently, trying not to think too closely about _why_ this appealed to him, Maedhros let his thighs splay wantonly open, and dipped his fingers back down to toy with his sore, dripping hole, spreading it wide.

"S-see?" he asked, and knew his chest and face were as red as his hair, a weird, electric current of arousal and humiliation feeding into each other in his veins. "See what a mess you've made of me?"

Fingon nodded. His cock was already half-hard again, with a virility that most youths would have envied. "I see. I see every part of you. You look _lovely_ with my seed spilling out of you, _arimelda_."

Then he set his hands to Maedhros's thighs, and pressed them down into the bedroll, impossibly wide, and bent to lick up his mess.

Maedhros's voice spiked in a sudden shout, his hand flying up to grip Fingon's hair. "Finno--what--"

"You've had your fun," came the husky voice from between his legs. "Now let me have mine."

His tongue was hot and wet, delving and curling and licking, and Maedhros threw his right arm over his face, muffling helpless cries into it. He writhed, and felt Fingon's hands digging deep into the muscles of his thighs, and reveled in the power he held, even helpless under a lover's hands. "I want you to take me again," he managed, when Fingon's skilled mouth sought and danced along his skin, leaving him wanting, hungry.

"But then I'd only fill you again," Fingon breathed. "And we'd be right back here."

"Fine, fine, anything! Just--don't leave me empty, please, I need it..."

A pair of fingers, then a third, slid into his sore hole, making him clench and shiver around them. They curled, expertly stroking, and soon, his eyes were fluttering, legs quaking, his hips rutting down mindlessly for more. "You'll come for me like this," Fingon told him, and the command in his voice was more arousing even than the way his fingertips unerringly found spots inside of Maedhros that made him squeal like a young pig.

"And then you'll put your pretty mouth on my cock, won't you? I've had something to eat, but you still need strength for the battle ahead."

He _pressed_ , grinding his fingertips against that spot, and Maedhros more than saw stars, he saw the Trees themselves, bursting behind his eyelids in brilliant hues. He cried out, again and again, uncaring of who heard him, only caring for the pleasure rippling through him.

There was a mouth on his cock. Fingon lapped up his seed, as if the act had never made him blush and flinch and bite his lip in apprehension back in Aman. Perhaps not every part of growing older, harder, and more accustomed to each other was a loss.

Maedhros's eyes wouldn't focus at all, the left one gone dark, the right blurry. That was fine. He knew where he was, and who was with him. "Feed it to me," he pleaded, and shifted up onto his knees, opening his mouth, offering himself.

Fingon's hands were in his hair, his cock hard and straining as it slid into Maedhros's mouth. It was already slick, the skin stretched taut it was so hard, and Maedhros sucked eagerly, letting it work into his throat.

"You're so perfect," Fingon was whispering, when he could spare a thought to hear. "Everything about you, everything you do, I never stop wanting you."

Maedhros laved the head with his tongue, let his teeth catch just _barely_ on the underside of the head, heard Fingon's breath stutter.

"The first time you did this, I thought you were going to kill me, I _still_ think this is going to kill me," Fingon babbled, fingers digging in hard to Maedhros's hair, tugging his ribbons free. "You're so--there's--I'm--you--"

Then it was a spout of Quenya, the sound of it recalling such easy, shining times, and he was spilling into Maedhros's waiting mouth.

Maedhros swallowed eagerly, hardly tasting any of it for how far Fingon was down his throat. He pulled off, relishing the small aches of his mouth being rubbed raw, his lips stretched too far, his jaw open too wide, as being pains of his own making.

A sudden image of Fingon scourging him flashed into his mind, and he gasped for air, leaning forward, burying his face in Fingon's hip. His heart thudded hard against his ribcage, a lurching beat that wasn't quite regular, and the feeling that shot through him was somewhere between arousal and fear.

 _Pull yourself together_ , he thought fiercely. _It has been fifty years! This is hardly the first time the two of you have lain together since! For once, don't go to pieces!_

It was the looming battle, he knew. He was confident, but he had been confident before, after the Dagor-nuin-Giliath. He trusted in his soldiers, but he had not been tested, personally, since that day.

"Maedhros? Beloved?"

Maedhros looked up, blinking tears away, and licked his lips. "You taste sweet," he said, and pulled Fingon back down, kissing him deeply, sharing the taste with him.

Fingon looked uncertain when they pulled away, but willing to be convinced. They fell down to the bedclothes in a tangle of limbs, sated and replete, breath mingling together.

A moment later, Fingon was asleep, as usual, and Maedhros was slowly tracing the contours of his face with his fingertips, when the tent flap opened. He tensed, and would have gone for his sword, but for the familiarity of the figure that stood there.

"I have been sent," Maglor informed him, "by a council. A council of every Captain whose tent is near yours."

Maedhros rather thought he should be embarrassed, but his blood was too calm, the day's activities faded into blissful relaxation. "Aye, I hear you."

"And everyone heard you. And says, 'Please Refrain.'"

"What did they really say?"

"'Gag him next time or I'll do it for him.'"

Fingon huffed out a sleepy laugh against Maedhros's chest. "Like to see them try," he said without opening his eyes, and smiled.

Maedhros grinned. "You heard the High Prince. Tell everyone else to be more mindful of the terrors that come upon me sometimes, and pray I don't kill them in my insanity."

"Russo--"

"I spoke in jest, do not tell them that."

Maglor was giving him an odd look. Had he really never joked so darkly before? Maybe the press of battle in the morning was upon him, too.

Finally, he turned, and pointedly secured the tent flap from the outside. Maedhros let out a little huff, and leaned up to blow out the candles before he pulled the bedclothes over them. "Thank you," he said, when it was dark.

"Mm. Always. Thank _you_."

"I mean, for..."

"It doesn't matter."

"It's...you shouldn't have to."

There was a long pause, so long that for a moment, Maedhros thought Fingon might have gone back to sleep. Then he spoke quietly. "Did you ever think that some of your darker desires...I might like them just as much as you do?"

"No," Maedhros said honestly. "I think you humor me."

"Then change your thoughts. I _would_ humor you, aye, but have never had to. And it isn't a device of the Enemy. Before we came to this land, you would shy away from telling me the things you dreamed of, because you were so certain I would not share them. Remember?"

Vaguely, was the answer. Maedhros nodded in the dark, just slightly.

"But I always liked them. Always. I don't think anything was broken in you, beloved. I think we are suited to each other, that's all."

"You think that," Maedhros said, his voice rougher now, "because I hide the things I truly want from you. You would care less for the ideas, if you knew them."

"You are not as hidden from me as you believe." The statement was plain, calm, and unfraid, the way Fingon always was. "I know what you want, Maedhros. And when you can ask for it, I will give it to you."

"You...but if I..."

"You want to debase yourself in front of me." There was no judgement in the words, and Fingon's hand came up to brush his hair back from his face, tucking it behind the point of one ear. "You want me to take you in hand, and be more cruel than you think I ever could be. It--it isn't in my nature, not for every time, but if you want it, if you need it, I will like it. We _are_ joined, you know. It means we're suited to each other, in every way. That isn't a meaningless oath."

Maedhros had thought, stupidly, that he could never love Fingon any more than he did. Of course, he thought that every day. "No. It isn't."

Fingon pressed a kiss to his chin. "Sleep. We have to be up before muster."

" _Before_ muster?"

"Of course. I have to re-braid your hair. Some troublesome harpist has made a mess of it."

~

"You can take that off."

They were the first words his uncle had said to him after the battle. He stood, sword in hand, upon the blood-soaked plain of Dorthonion, seeing nothing but the corpses of orcs as far as the eye could see. Tens of thousands had fallen, and no few by his own hand. There was cheering, had been a great pounding of spears and shaking of swords, and even now he could hear Elven voices raised in songs of praise, of triumph. Some of the songs were of him, and were reverent.

It took long moments for the words to make any sense in a row. He looked up, and saw his uncle staring at him in fear.

Or perhaps it was not fear. Perhaps it was respect, something he had not thought likely to see on anyone's face again, for a time.

His uncle nodded to his sword--no, his hand. Slowly, Maedhros sheathed his sword, and after another prod, took off his glove. The ring shone on his index finger, his hand the only part of him that wasn't soaked in the spray of black blood.

He left the glove in the squelching mud of the plain, his uncle's hand on his back as they started making the long march back to camp, the Dagor Aglareb, and victory, behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This entire fic is finished now, and I'm going to be uploading every day for the next week or so until it's finished <3


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